


mirror

by OnyxSphinx



Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, Getting Together, M/M, Oblivious Newton Geiszler, Role Reversal, a weird little thought that turned into a full-blown au, gratuitous mathematical metaphors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-04
Updated: 2020-02-04
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:35:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22564123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnyxSphinx/pseuds/OnyxSphinx
Summary: in which Newt is the physicist, Hermann is the xenobiolgist, and somehow thing still turn out more or less the same.
Relationships: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb
Kudos: 38





	mirror

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me at [autisticharrow](https://autisticharrow.tumblr.com/) on tumblr

"I'm going to Drift with the section of Mutavore's brain," Dr. Hermann Gottlieb, Kaiju-Sciences Departmental Co-Head, says.

Newt raises a brow at him, the action somewhat diminished in value by the fact that his brows are naturally wild and, currently, sticking up at odds, and he's a full two inches shorter than Hermann himself.

"You are going to do  _ no _ such thing, dude," Newton says, waving chalk at his  _ idiot _ of a colleague.  _ Honestly _ . Biologists, what  _ dumbasses _ . "That is, like, on  _ so _ many levels a bad idea, Gottlieb."

"Oh, as if  _ you've _ got a better way to learn more about the Breach?" Hermann sneers, and makes a methodical incision on the piece of kaiju he's working on.

"We will not  _ understand _ the kaijus—"

"—kaij _ u _ —"

"—like this, Gottlieb. Look, man, trust my numbers, okay, even if you don't trust  _ me _ ."

Hermann rolls his eyes. " _ Trust _ ," he says. "I'd sooner offer myself up to the kaiju than  _ trust _ your  _ conjectures _ ."

" _ Conjectures? _ " Newton shrieks, " _ conjectures?!? _ I fucking  _ coded the Jaegers _ , Gottlieb, I'm not the one  _ playing with aliens _ —"

"Mm," Hermann interrupts. "Well, you can't stop me."

"I  _ could _ ," Newton says. "I  _ could _ report you to the Marshal."

Even as he says it, though, they both know that it won't happen. Newton isn't that kind of man, which is probably for the better. "You're free to  _ join me _ , of course, if you're  _ curious _ ," Hermann slips in, casually, "do some monitoring—you practically  _ salivate _ at the thought of data like this, Newt, don't lie."

" _ Geiszler _ ," Newton huffs, and shakes his head. "And you're wrong, man. I have  _ zero  _ interest in aiding and abetting your self-experimentation."

Hermann shrugs. "Suit yourself," he says.

Newton nods decisively and goes back to his equations.

Still; it bothers him late at night when he's trying to sleep—because he may, in a tiny bit of his mind, still hold a bit of fondness for Gottlieb. In a very detached collegial manner. He is absolutely not staying up because his mind won't stop running probability equations.

_ 24.3% _ is the number it comes up with; colour-coded into a nice little disarray into the fabric of his mind.

Twenty-four-point-three percent chance Gottlieb doesn't  _ die _ .

Less than five percent chance he actually  _ initiates  _ a neural handshake.

Newton...does  _ not _ like these odds, he's not going to lie. He doesn't like them at  _ all _ . He likes them even less because he  _ should _ not care but he  _ does _ , one-hundred percent, which is  _ not _ what he's ever wanted.

Gottlieb...must not be allowed to Drift.

Well, that's not great, because, really,  _ someone _ has to Drift with the kaiju. Gottlieb was, as much as he hates to admit it,  _ right _ . Only a bit. Only about this.

So; problem: Gottlieb will die. Probably. Newton doesn't want this. He doesn't interogate  _ why _ . Problem:  _ someone _ has to Drift. Problem: no one is more of a kaiju expert than Gottlieb.

Ah; lightbulb moment.

_ Almost _ no one. Newton's spent a half a decade in a lab with him, and he's a genius with six degrees. Biology  _ is _ one of them, gained in, frankly, a pitiful attempt to impress a far younger Gottlieb, who. Does not know this. Who will  _ never _ know this.

Christ, Newton hates feelings. Numbers—now, those you can rely on. Feelings are just the chemical discharges of the brain, and do  _ not _ predict the kaiju attacks and save lives. Plus, they're not  _ complicated _ . They follow patterns. Two plus two is always four, a negative by a negative a positive. Feelings, on the other hand, are a hot  _ mess _ of  _ no fucking thanks _ and confusion. They're the longing for a man he does  _ not _ enjoy the presence of, and the half-remembered excitement of years ago. Emotions are adding two and two and getting three, or five, or nine.

He lets out a rattling sigh. Okay, then. He's doing this.

He spends the next two days watching in only half-feigned horror as Gottlieb constructs his  _ abomination _ of a Drift interface; sees it progress from a few soldered-together pipes and re-routed wires and shit to the whole shebang. Gottlieb, ever the showman for some reason, even fucking  _ polishes _ it, which, um,  _ weird _ .

Gottlieb's hair, long overdue for a haircut by now, falls across his face as he works, and he keeps giving his head an irate shake to try and get it out of his vision. It's wavy with the length, more than Newton's ever seen before except maybe in 2017, and it looks soft.

(His twos keep adding up to six. He doesn't like it very much.)

It's easy enough to get to the interface alone.

Gottlieb is a _ punctual _ fucker, and keeps a neat(ish, as much as it can be when the  _ world is ending _ and they're working to save it) sleep-schedule, trying to get at least five hours a night, and Newton, well,  _ doesn't _ , to put it mildly, so Gottlieb doesn't even comment on his staying behind.

After that, it's just a bit of fiddling and, bam, he's set to go. He clicks on one of his many tape-recorders—he needs to ramble, it helps him  _ think _ , Gottlieb, shut up—and clears his throat. "Alrighty," he says. "Time to do this. Gottlieb, this is  _ all _ your fault, by the way, if I die, you fucking incompatible bastard."

* * *

"Newt  _ Geiszler _ if that Drift didn't kill you  _ I will _ ," is the first thing Newton hears as he comes to consciousness.

As far as greetings go, it's. Not great. Objectively speaking. Especially since his eyes are unfocusing against his will and the roof of his mouth tastes and feels like corn-starch. "Gottlieb," he manages to croak, "good God, man, let go of me, this is getting embarrassing."

" _ Embarrassing _ ," Gottlieb says, more than a bit hysterical. "Oh, sure, Newt,  _ embarrassing _ , that's just—that's just  _ fine _ , then, of course—" his voice goes so high it cuts out. He does  _ not  _ let Newton go. Or. Nope. Ah. Okay, so, turns out,  _ Newton _ was the one not letting go of him.

He rectifies that. Quickly. As quickly as he can when his fingers are doing a good imitation of carved marble.

He coughs. "Water, maybe?" he suggests.

" _ Water _ ," Gottlieb repeats. "Yes. Er.  _ Water _ ."

What follows is a pretty confusing mess of a bit of time in which Newton's pretty sure Gottlieb  _ manhandles _ him into a chair, though how he does  _ that _ with only the full use of one arm, Newton will never know. In another life this dude could be a superhero or something.  _ Actually, no, he couldn't, he's too much of a dick, but like, thanks for the suggestion, brain. _

Anyway. He gets manhandled, probably, into a chair, and there's a cold cup of water shoved into his hands and Newton's saying...something, right, he's  _ talking _ , to the. To the Marshal. Yeah, okay.

This has been a supremely weird twenty-ish (maybe?) minutes.

"Look, I'm not, like,  _ saying _ it's a good idea," Newton says, "but it  _ works _ , and I've got like half the puzzle, so if you let me Drift again I'll get you the other half."

"Preposterous," Gottlieb blusters, "sir, he's  _ obviously _ in no condition—"

"Oh, fuck you," Newton snaps. " _ My _ chance of staying alive is better. That's why I  _ did _ it, you bastard. If you died, we'd loose the knowledge, and I was  _ not _ going to let you do that to—" he stops. "To  _ humanity _ ," he says, finally. "I wasn't going to let you do that to humanity."

There's a silence, and the Marshal's expression is flat. Finally, he says, "Gottlieb, do you know of Hannibal Chau?"

"Er, well, yes—why—?"

"Doctor Geiszler is, as you pointed out, in no shape to be doing much right now, so I need  _ you _ to go negotiate with Chau for another kaiju brain."

"Sweet," Newton half-slurs. "I'm going to have  _ so _ much fun doing this again."

Gottlieb glares at him. "Sir, may I  _ also _ suggest—"

" _ Doctor Geiszler _ is Drifting," the Marshal says, firmly, "that's  _ final _ ."

The biologist's expression sours. " _ Fine _ ," he snaps. "Fine. I will—I will get the brain. Newt, if you die before I get back, I  _ swear _ —"

"Cut the caring shit, dude," Newton interrupts. "You don't have to pretend to like me. Just go get that brain."

Gottlieb looks about to protest—probably for being called  _ dude _ —, but he merely purses his lips, snaps a salute to the Marshal, and exits, the taptap _ clack _ of his gait fading, and the Marshal leaves a moment later.

Newton lets his chin drop forward, eyes slipping shut.

* * *

"You are  _ not _ Drifting alone," Gottlieb says, a single, surprisingly powerful hand gripping his shoulder and pinning him to the wall. Or. Maybe just normal-strength. Newton is... _ not _ functioning 100% right now. 30% max.

"I'll do whatever the fuck I want," Newton retorts, the words ringing exhaustion. "Anyway, it's not like you can Drift  _ for _ me."

"No, I  _ cannot _ ," Gottlieb says, and it looks like the admission pains him. "However, I can Drift  _ with _ you."

Newton considers it. Would argue.  _ Should _ argue, but he's...really tired. "Okay," he says, instead, with a weak shrug with the shoulder Gottlieb is  _ not _ pinning down to the wall. Actually, he doesn't really  _ mind _ the whole pinning-to-the-wall thing, but that's probably exhaustion speaking, since two and two is getting seven.

"Good," Gottlieb says, and releases him; dusts something off of his jacket that Newton can't see. "Good," he says, again, and goes over to the Drift interface. "Shall we?"

"Literally the only good thing you ever did with this was to add wheels so it's portable," Newton says, and helps him wheel it out and down the hall and out to where they load it onto the military helicopter.

Otachi's corpse rises, behemoth, long before they get close to where they're going to land, and Newton wonders, for a moment, if Gottlieb had a run-in with it. Probably not. He'd be...deader if he had.

Newton does the countdown just because it's the done thing, and then they're plunged into the blinding blue of the Drift.

They save the world, a bit. Help close the Breach.

So; five hours after the fact, and Newton is letting Gottlieb cling to him as they make their way back to his quarters.

" _ You _ are clinging to  _ me _ , Newt," Gottlieb says, wryly, voice richer than Newton remembers it being. Two and two and two and...he tries to shake the thoughts from his head; succeeds, mostly.

"'m not," Newton huffs, and lets the other manoeuvre him into bed.

Sweet, blessed  _ sleep _ , finally.

And of course he sleepwalks  _ that night of all nights _ .

It's not a common thing anymore, but he did it a lot as a kid—never hurt himself, thank god, but it was. Unsettling. And generally caused by a sense of incompletion, which would explain this, sort of.

He's in the lab.

More specifically, he's in the lab, staring at his chalk-boards; wondering, thinking, musing. Staring, mostly. Keeps catching sight of the twos, and they keep adding to five, right now. The war's made the world insane, apparently; rewritten the basic laws of math. This is more perplexing than it should really be.

"You didn't reply when I called your name," says Gottlieb—says  _ Hermann _ , he's probably Hermann now—, like a fucking creeper from right behind him.

Newton's too tired to react much. "Sleepwalking," he says. "Sorry—wait, did you say called my name? Did you run into me in the halls or something...?"

But Hermann isn't paying attention anymore; he's strode up to the chalkboards himself. "I can't believe they actually saved us, in the end," he murmurs, and shakes his head. " _ Ridiculous _ ."

"What," Newton says, flatly, and would be more startled if he weren't so astoundingly  _ tired. _ "Dude, no? I mean, okay, yeah, kind of, but  _ mostly _ you saved my life—I almost died, I would have died. If anything saved the world, it wasn't my numbers—it was  _ you _ ."

"Hmm," says Hermann, and turns; takes two steps toward him and kisses him

Newton stays stock-still; mostly out of shock, for a moment, and then his brain decides, okay this is actually pretty nice and he kisses back tentatively.

After a few beats, Hermann pulls away, and gives him a look that’s quite obviously meant to read as  _ something _ . “...what," Newton says, again, and Hermann's hand falls to his shirt; gives him a look that clearly reads,  _ you idiot _ .

"You pioneered a whole new branch of theoretical physics, but you can't get inside your  _ head _ the  _ one _ time you need to," he snarls, but it's not a harsh snarl; more of an irritated one (Newton has the Gottliebian catalogue of tones memorised, he's pretty sure he's right); an exasperated one. "Newt.  _ Newton _ ," he says, the second syllable falling far gentler than it has any right to, "look."

And then he kisses Newton again.

Newton's eyes slip closed, and he can't see anything except every shade of purple he can imagine and lots he  _ hasn't, _ lots he  _ can't _ , he's never seen them before.

_ Oh _ , he thinks, and the twos all slot into place. They're not five or seven or nine or three. He was  _ reading them wrong _ . They're  _ purples _ .


End file.
